


i see fire

by pissedofsandwich



Series: catching fire au [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Catching Fire AU, F/M, Gen, M/M, also cosette is not a natural blonde, cosette and enjolras are kind of siblings, eventual exR bc i just can't not write them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich/pseuds/pissedofsandwich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire vaguely remembered screaming no at the television and Éponine staring at him in bewilderment. In the morning, when neither Cosette nor Enjolras died, when the two of them were declared Victors, he would wave her question off and blame it on the alcohol. </p><p>But Éponine knew better.</p><p>(Catching Fire AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i see fire

**Author's Note:**

> edited: 1/11/2014
> 
> i have so many feels about cosette and enjolras being bros. i can't seem to control my hands, because the second i know they're vomiting words and then this happened. i hope this didn't get me kicked out of the fandom. also, eventual exR in later chapters. because those two are too precious. title taken from ed sheeran's i see fire, which is a very good song, even though i know it's the hobbit's soundtrack. 
> 
> enjoy! <3

Cosette walks to the stage slowly, and not a word is uttered until she stands right beside Caesar Flickerman, her eyes already shining with tears. Grantaire thinks _bullshit_. Cosette is wearing an honest-to-god wedding dress, with _actual_ little angel’s wings on her back. Her hair is blonde again, and she is always beautiful, but this time she looks radiant, like she actually has a halo around her head. And _fuck_ , Cosette is _breathtaking_.

“Oh, Cosette,” Caesar is at loss of words. It’s not every day he gets speechless. Cosette smiles sadly, or does an _impeccable_ impression of it, but either way it’s convincing. The Lark looks down. “You look _wow_ , beautiful doesn’t even cover it.”

“Thank you,” Cosette says, and _Christ_ , Grantaire forgets just good Cosette is at acting. She actually sounds earnest and not like she wants to spit in the interviewer’s face. “I’m,” her voice cracks, “I’m supposed to wearing this on my wedding. It’s supposed to be in two weeks.”

“I know, I know,” Caesar sighs in anguish. “It’s so—so sad.”

“It is,” Cosette wipes at her tears _elegantly_. How does one wipe their tears elegantly? Only Cosette can manage to do that. “He was— _is_ so excited about it.”

“Oh, honey,” Caesar sniffs, “You’re going to make me cry.” And then they hug, and the audience lets out a long _ooohhh_ and Grantaire wants to fling his shoes at them. Why are they _so_ stupid? Do they genuinely believe in everything Cosette says? Caesar releases Cosette, but his hands stay on her bare shoulder. He then sweeps his eyes over the crowd in melancholy.

“Cosette, believe me, I’m trying to be tough here, I really am,” Caesar sniffs again, patting her sympathetically on the small of her shoulders, “But I feel like I will just end up crying instead of getting any interview done. So tell me, The Lark, will you be amendable to do a little twirl for us? For me? For your dear Marius waiting anxiously at home?”

Grantaire scoffs. He’s pretty sure Marius is doing anything but waiting anxiously at home; watching Cosette anxiously, of course, but _also_ planning the rebellion. He has the mayor’s support and Valjean is with him, and every Victor knows Valjean knows his shit.

Cosette nods.

Éponine grips his hand hard. He nearly bleeds. _Watch_ , she mouths at him. And so he does. He pins his eyes on her, and watches. She twirls, slowly at first, and then faster, putting her hands in the air and closing her eyes, and _spins_. The audience gives a collective gasp as her wedding dress transforms Cosette into—well, _not_ Cosette. Her dress somehow is reduced to knee-length, the whites turning into a coal black, and the angel wings strapped to her back are elongating, growing larger and larger. They're not an angel’s wings now, but rather a bird’s.

Cosette opens her eyes.

Cosette is a great actress, but Grantaire doesn’t think the shock on her face is feigned.

“The mockingjay,” Éponine whispers from beside him, “Shit, they’re planning something, R.”

 _I know,_ Grantaire wants to say, but his voice is caught in his throat. If Cosette in her wedding dress looks radiant, Cosette in this… mockingjay dress looks not only radiant, but _dangerous_. Cosette spreads her arms, the wings on her back unfolding, and _fuck_ , she is not Cosette anymore. The Lark is dead and gone now. Everything about her screams _threat._ She is not a mockingjay; she is the mockingjay now.

The audience all stands up and they give her applause for five minutes straight. Grantaire can see the smug, satisfied smile she tries to hard as she heads up to join the rest of the Victors. Or rather Tributes—they’re back to being Tributes again now, aren’t they? There is no victory in being a Victor at all, especially not when Cosette and Enjolras are still alive.

Éponine’s grip tightens around his hand.

-

“Your sister was going to marry the love of her life—how do you feel about that, Enjolras?” Caesar looks squarely at Enjolras. Grantaire tries to focus on their conversation, but it’s hard to when Enjolras is wearing a _suit_. He’s still wearing that stupid red jacket; it’s become a sort of trademark for him now and a trend in the Capitol. Enjolras doesn’t look any different from the last time Grantaire saw him. But then again, both Enjolras and Cosette are good at pretending to be something they aren’t.

Enjolras sits back, and the whole nation holds their breath.

“Pretty wrecked, actually,” Enjolras laughs, and if a fake laugh sounds _that_ good, Grantaire wonders how his real, genuine laugh would sound like. “I was more than excited to be Marius’ best man. But then this happened.” There is despair in his eyes now, but something tells him this may be just the start. Caesar leans towards him. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this, especially since—“

He stops abruptly and Grantaire thinks, _there it is. Which bomb he’s going to drop this time?_

“Since what, Enjolras?” Caesar is looking at him curiously now. “Oh, come on, don’t leave me hanging! The suspense is killing me!” Caesar is smiling now, albeit reluctantly, but Enjolras isn’t smiling. He actually looks like he’s in _pain_. God, he knows Enjolras and Cosette aren’t actually siblings, but the way they act, the way they talk—they might as well be actual siblings in real life. Or maybe Enjolras is a just a really good actor. After all, Cosette cried the whole training and still managed to be everyone’s favorite in the Arena. They showered her with gifts.

“I just found out this morning, actually,” Enjolras admits, “Cosette told me.”

“What did she tell you?” Caesar presses on. “Come on, Enjolras, time is running out!”

“She’s pregnant,” Enjolras blurts out.

 _Oh, there it is. He dropped the baby bomb_.

The audience—all of them, can you even _imagine_ —shrieks and wails as soon the words left Enjolras’ mouth. They’re all standing up now, and Grantaire doesn’t know who yells at first, but someone in the crowd yells, “Stop the Games!” and at first, it’s only a few people following him, but suddenly, the audience is all screaming the same three words: _stop the Games, stop the Games, stop the Games!_ Caesar is flabbergasted. He has a hand over his mouth, and he is completely dumbstruck. It’s the first time Grantaire has seen him confused, and it’s actually quite amusing, if not for the fact that the interview has turned into a riot now, the audience forcing to climb up the stage, the Peacekeepers holding them off as long as they can before they push past the white-uniformed guards, ruling over the stage now, taking the mic away from Caesar Flickerman and screaming into it, _stop the Games_!

“Turn off the lights!” Caesar is shouting. “Turn off the lights!”

There are gunshots.

Éponine flinches beside him. Her grip is bone-crushing.

“R,” she says, “What did I tell you?”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t even dare. He chances a glance at where Enjolras is supposed to be, standing beside Cosette. He doesn’t notice him getting there. He must have sauntered there when the riot starts. Enjolras is clever like that.

“District 12 always has plans,” Grantaire says.

“We’re going to die, R,” Éponine whispers.

Enjolras offers his hand to Cosette, which she takes and clasps hard. Turning to Combeferre, she says something that Grantaire can’t hear due to the sound of the riot, but Combeferre takes her hand, holds the hand of the Victor/Tribute beside him, and Grantaire finally realizes what’s going on when Feuilly silently searches for his hand.

Éponine lets Courfeyrac hold her hand.

The Tributes—no, the _Victors_ , because they had _won_ , dammit, they had won and the deal is, once they’re done with one Games there will be no more Games for them, that’s it, but now, just because of _one_ selfish rebellion act pulled by Cosette and Enjolras—beautiful, _vicious_ Enjolras—they’re now catapulted into the Arena again, being the center of _entertainment_ , and it’s not fair. Facing one Arena is far more than enough.

When Grantaire looks around, all of the Victors are holding hand.

-

Really, Grantaire didn’t understand why the Capitol didn’t just kill Effie Trinket. She was, in some ways, the reason why Cosette and Enjolras rebelled—subtly, of course, but Grantaire is many things, and _stupid_ is certainly _not_ one of them. He knew, ever since the first time he saw on his television, that they would cause nothing but trouble to Capitol. But he was also enamored by the amount of beauty the two possessed. It was almost ironic, considering the fact that District 12 is the poorest district in all Panem. He had never seen anyone more awe-inspiring than Enjolras. Courfeyrac was charming, of course, but Enjolras was angelically handsome.

Grantaire knew, of course, that the fragile, vulnerable façade that Cosette had going on was feigned. It was obvious—the others noticed it, too, especially when Enjolras, came his turn to be interviewed, revealed that Cosette was actually his long-lost sister. And then he proceeded to recount their meeting, that cold, rainy day when he saved her life by sparing her a loaf of bread. The Capitol bought it, thought it tragic. Grantaire didn’t believe it, but he admired him for his effort.

“I feel like I knew that girl,” Éponine told him later when she paid him a visit. “Her face—it looks familiar.”

“You ran away from District 12, all the way to District 7,” Grantaire had said, “You _knew_ a lot of people, ‘Ponine.”

(Later, Éponine would remember her. They used to grow up together until Éponine ran away. Her hair had been brown back then. Perhaps dying it blonde was part of whatever Cosette and Enjolras had been planning. The color suits her.)

On their individual sessions, Enjolras got a nine out twelve. It wasn’t really surprising. Grantaire could easily associate him with killing. But what really threw him off guard was Cosette, who managed to get an _eleven_ out of twelve. Even Bahorel only got a _ten_. Grantaire couldn’t understand how that happened.

When then they were thrown into the Arena, Grantaire finally understood why.

Cosette killed like she was born to it, befriending her allies before killing all of them with a smile. It won her many Sponsors. They loved her, they _adored_ her. She was all but showered with gifts. She had an endless supply of food, a warm sleeping bed, medicine. It was like she didn’t suffer at all. Her Sponsor even sent her fresh, new change of clothes once, and Cosette—Grantaire didn’t know what she was thinking—immediately went to the river to take a bath. Of course, the others saw it as an opportunity to gang up on her.

What they didn’t expect were traps. The traps caught them, and Cosette, still dripping with water and _naked_ , smiled at them and stabbed them with a pearl-branded knife, each one in different spot. Cosette put on her clothes, spread out her newly-sent food in front of her like she was in some kind of picnic and ate, while they cried out in agony. When they finally died, Cosette picked out flowers from the Arena and threw it upon their hanging corpses.

Cosette put that fragile façade back on when she stumbled upon Enjolras, bloodied and injured. She begged— _literally_ begged, falling on her knees and crying—her Sponsors to give her something to soothe Enjolras’ pain (her exact words). They didn’t.

Why would they? By that time, they were the only ones in the Arena. Enjolras was injured, he was already dying—it was only a matter of time. And so the citizens of Capitol grieved; they wept for their doomed relationship, claimed in a tragedy. Except Cosette had other plans—and that’s where the berries came into the story.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Cosette had said. “I can’t do it.” Her eyes were honest. She opened her palm. When Enjolras noticed the berries, Grantaire saw the ghost of smile in Enjolras’ face. He, painstakingly slow, pushed himself up on his elbows. He thrust his open palm toward Cosette, smiling and unafraid. It didn’t look like he was feigning that either.

“We’re just going to pull a Romeo and Juliet,” Cosetted joked weakly. “Ready?”

“I have never been as ready as I am right now.”

“On three…” Cosette bit her lower lip.

“No, wait,” Enjolras put his hand over Cosette’s open palm. “Let me just die, Cosette. I’m dying anyway. You have your whole life ahead of you. You have—you have _Marius_ back home.” Grantaire recalled the hitch in Éponine’s breath at his words, but he didn’t ask.

“How—“ Her confusion was real. “How do _you_ know about that?” Her voice was small, and for the first time since she was in the Arena, she sounded like she was afraid.

And then Enjolras _grinned_.

“I’m your brother, aren’t I?”

Cosette just looked at him for a long time. “No,” she finally decided. “We’re going to die together. I’m not going to let you die alone. If you don’t want to do this—well, I’ll just kill myself now then.”

“No,” said Enjolras firmly. He took a deep breath. “On three,” he whispered.

“ _One, two, three—“_

Grantaire vaguely remembered screaming _no_ at the television and Éponine staring at him in bewilderment. In the morning, when neither Cosette nor Enjolras died, when the two of them were declared Victors, he would wave her question off and blame it on the alcohol.

But Éponine knew better.

-


End file.
